


Sindaria's FE3H Fictober 2019

by Sindaria



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Fictober 2019, Flash Fiction, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-24 13:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindaria/pseuds/Sindaria
Summary: A collection of drabbles written to the Fictober 2019 prompts. Multiple pairings, varying levels of fluff, angst, and everything in between. Index listed in chapter one.





	1. Index

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> My longer fics will continue (I've already got a bunch of words banged out for the next chapter of Under Your Skin), but I wanted to do some little warm-up drabbles for characters and pairings I don't usually write. Fictober prompts seemed like a good way to do it, so here we are! 
> 
> These will each be around 500 words and usually focus on a ship since that's what I most like writing. M/F, F/F, M/M, and maybe even some multi-partner stuff is on the docket. If you just want to find your favs, I'm using this first chapter to make an index. If you like my writing in general, I hope you enjoy some wildly different pairings!
> 
> Mostly these are practice for when I open up to request/gift fics, but I may expand on some of them later on. Not sure if I'll make it through all the prompts, but I'll do what I can.

1\. “It will be fun, trust me.” - Hilda/Marianne  
2\. “Just follow me, I know the area.” - Dorothea/Petra  
3\. “Now? Now you listen to me?” - Indech/Byleth  
4\. “I know you didn’t ask for this.” - Edelgard/Byleth  
5\. “I might just kiss you.” - Shamir/Catherine  
6\. “Yes, I’m aware. Your point?”  
7\. “No, and that’s final.”  
8\. “Can you stay?”  
9\. “There is a certain taste to it.”  
10\. “Listen, I can’t explain it, you’ll have to trust me.”  
11\. “It’s not always like this.”  
12\. “What if I don’t see it?”  
13\. “I never knew it could be this way.”  
14\. “I can’t come back.”  
15\. “That’s what I’m talking about!”  
16\. “Listen. No, really listen.”  
17\. “There is just something about them/her/him.”  
18\. “Secrets? I love secrets.”  
19\. “Yes, I admit it, you were right.”  
20\. “You could talk about it, you know?”  
21\. “Change is annoyingly difficult.”  
22\. “We could have a chance.”  
23\. “You can’t give more than yourself.”  
24\. “Patience… is not something I’m known for.”  
25\. “I could really eat something.”  
26\. “You keep me warm.”  
27\. “Can you wait for me?”  
28\. “Enough! I heard enough.”  
29\. “I’m doing this for you.”  
30\. “I’m with you, you know that.”  
31\. “Scared, me?”


	2. A New Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda helps Marianne prepare for the White Heron Cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - “It will be fun, trust me.”

“Stop squirming! How am I supposed to get a feel for these alterations if you’re always moving?” 

Hilda lets out an exasperated huff, her hands on her hips as she looks at her friend. Sure, she _knows_ Marianne is uncomfortable, and she has no idea what the professor was thinking signing her up for this dance contest, but honestly. She’s taking time out of her _very_ busy schedule to ensure the clumsiest deer doesn’t trip over her ribbons, and this is the thanks she gets?

_Maybe_ she’s still a little annoyed the professor chose Marianne for this. Just a little. It’s not like she’s spent the last week thinking about it. She doesn’t even want to compete. The preparation might be fun--the costuming, the hair, the makeup--but the actual performance? She’ll leave that to someone who’s better suited to the spotlight. 

That someone definitely not being skittish, doe-eyed Marianne. This is going to crush her, and then Hilda’s going to have to pick up the pieces. 

Which… she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t like people relying on her for anything, but Marianne is hopeless without her. And maybe it’s a little nice to feel needed. Not that she wants to put forth the effort for everyone, but no one else is going to help her. 

“I’m sorry, Hilda,” she whimpers, her fingers curling into her palms. “It’s just… um…” 

“Well? Spit it out, Marianne.”

Her friend shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the fabric. “It feels a little… um… revealing.” 

Hilda sighs and steps back, holding the tailoring pin between her lips. She’s already prepared to tell Marianne the fabric has to be light and free-flowing so it can move with her. She’s also prepared to lightly tease her about catching the attention of boys. 

But for the first time since agreeing to help with the alterations, she actually _looks_ at Marianne. There’s nothing that remarkable about her. She’s not all that shapely, there’s hardly any muscle tone in her body, she’s pretty but not a knockout. In that outfit, though…

Hilda must be coming down with some kind of sickness. Maybe the same thing that’s plagued her brother lately. Her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest. Sweat beads on her palms which is just the least attractive thing in the world. She can’t even breathe, let alone speak. 

That slit up the thigh, it’s just… 

“Hilda? Are you okay?” 

Marianne’s soft voice breaks her out of her stupor. She looks up to find concerned gray eyes fixed on her. 

“Me? Perfectly fine! Never been better.” Her laugh is a little too loud, so she opts to shift the focus away from herself. “Stop worrying so much, Marianne. With that outfit, you’re sure to turn all the right heads.” 

“Oh.” That cute little note of realization is followed by the cautious, “You really think so?” 

_Oh, I know so…_

“I really do. It’s going to be fun! Trust me.” 

Maybe Marianne will make a decent dancer after all.


	3. The Oblivious Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petra teaches Dorothea how to hunt. Dorothea mostly just learns how to pine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 - “Just follow me, I know the area.”

It’s not that Dorothea doesn’t _like_ the wilderness--plenty of operas feature the scaling of mountains both real and metaphorical--she’d just prefer to be almost anywhere else. 

She isn’t the precious, pristine rose she might pretend to be sometimes--she doesn’t mind getting a little dirty if it’s for a good cause. But the fact that the professor chose her to help with the hunting is utterly baffling. 

Dorothea isn’t a hunter. Not of cute little animals, at least. One might be charitable in saying she’s a hunter of a different sort, but considering how disastrous those hunts usually are, she can’t say she sees any correlation. 

At least she isn’t alone. Petra’s leading this hunt. Petra, who’s actually competent. More than competent, in fact. She’s already killed and dressed three hares, and they’ve only been hunting for half an hour at the most. 

But Petra isn’t content with just leading her through the forest and accepting her endless praise. Oh, no. 

_These are vital skills to be having, Dorothea. Are you really not knowing how to hunt?_

She’d said something silly about how she just expected her eventual husband to know how to do those sorts of things. _Or wife_, she’d added, to her chagrin. Petra was as oblivious as ever. She’s so perceptive about most things, but when it comes to noticing the affection of others…

If she’s completely honest with herself, that’s the most frustrating part of this little excursion. She’s not going to argue about spending time alone with Petra, but it only catapults her further into her own misery. She doesn’t need to feel this way about a Brigid princess. The people of Brigid would never accept her. She'll end up alone again, in a land that isn't home, singing for scraps from people who don't know her and don't care to.

_As if any of that is the obstacle. You’re just a friend to her. Nothing more._

“Your head is racing.” 

Petra’s improper use of the phrase pulls her out of her ridiculous melancholy and she slips the mask back in place, giving her friend a brilliant smile. “Just thinking about what a lovely teacher I have,” she says, giving the woman a wink. 

“I am not teaching you anything yet.” Petra’s cheeks take on the tiniest tint of red. There must be something wrong with Dorothea’s eyes. Petra doesn’t blush. “Here, I found tracks.” 

Dorothea is as mesmerized as ever watching her work. In no time she manages to find a warren hidden in the thick underbrush. She shows Dorothea the tracks going to and from, then teaches her how to set up a simple snare trap. 

There _is_ something fascinating about it, but Dorothea is apparently destined to make a complete fool out of herself. She ties the string too tight, the sapling its attached to snapping under the force of it. She can only laugh as the little plant smacks her hard across the hand, leaving an angry red mark. 

She stops laughing immediately when Petra takes her hand and examines the wound. There’s no mistaking the color in _her_ cheeks, but Petra's too busy fretting to notice. She pulls a little clay jar of salve from her pack and rubs it into Dorothea’s skin. The songstress is speechless the entire time. 

“We are having enough for stew,” Petra announces, holding up the rabbits. “The professor will expect our return.” 

All Dorothea can do is follow, her fingers occasionally drifting to her injured hand.


	4. An Enticing Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indech has survived off of instinct alone for a very long time. It's had some... interesting side effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 - “Now? Now you listen to me?”
> 
> Y'all know who this was written for.

So much has changed. 

Indech is unsure of how much time has truly passed. His thinking mind was not… lost, exactly, but dormant. An unnecessary luxury in the life he’s led for many, many years. He existed off of instinct alone, until the familiar scent of his family stirred something within him.

They brought him back, in every sense of the word. Cethleann especially. She pleaded with him, forced him to remember, and he is grateful for his niece’s kind heart and stubborn insistence. He is also pleased--and mildly annoyed--to see that some things do not change. Cichol is as overprotective as ever. He has not stopped fretting over Indech’s condition since they returned to this stuffy fortress their sister built.

“Cease your fussing,” he snarls, batting his brother’s hand from his neck. “I am fine.” 

“You have been in a very _particular_ state for some time. I cannot in good conscience allow you to leave the infirmary without a thorough examination from one who knows what to look for.” 

His manner of speaking has changed, Indech notes. He cannot put his finger on how, but it feels different. Perhaps a concession he has made to live amongst the humans for so long. Macuil would be appalled. 

“Please, Uncle.” 

Cethleann, on the other hand, sounds exactly the same. Something inside of Indech softens as it always does when faced with the pleading eyes of his niece. He turns to face her and smiles, the edge of a fang catching his lip.

“It will not take much longer, I promise. We need you to be well,” she says, her voice filled with emotion.

“I am well enough, Cethleann,” he assures her. “But so long as you wish it, I will subject myself to your father’s prodding.” 

She flashes him a brilliant smile that reminds Indech of her mother. He casts a glance to Cichol before looking away. He should be kinder. His brother has lost so much.

“I have told you, Uncle. You must call me Flayn while we are here,” Cethleann reminds him, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

How long has it been since he was last touched? Even so innocent a touch as one from his niece feels strange now. Will it always feel like this? 

“And we shall have to come up with a name for you, as well,” Cichol chimes in.

“My own name is perfectly fine.” He glances between his brother and his niece. “It has been a very long time since the war. I am sure no one remembers us.” 

Cichol winces, one hand drifting upward, fingers scratching at his beard. “I’m afraid our sister has ensured that is not the case. It will not be forever, perhaps, but we--” 

Something catches Indech’s attention, calling to the instincts that have ruled him for so long. Another scent, this one more recently familiar. Intriguing. So very intriguing. His nostrils flare and he closes his eyes so that he might better appreciate it.

It is not just the lingering impression of a scent, though. This one grows stronger until he can practically feel it surrounding him. His blood heats, pumping through his veins in a way he has not experienced in ages. Before he is consciously aware of it, Indech is on his feet and moving toward the source. 

“Ah, Professor, you--” 

He barely hears his brother’s words, barely hears Cethleann call out to him. In truth, he barely even realizes the source of that scent is a living being, standing before him in the flesh. A human who is not quite human, who smells so deliciously of something that should belong to _him_. 

In an instant his nose is buried against the warm skin of her neck, her silken hair tickling his cheeks. He breathes deeply, drawing that scent into his very being. More. He needs more. He needs…

The resulting gasp is the first thing to draw him out of his stupor. A woman’s gasp. Alarmed, though not quite afraid. Not quite pleased, either. 

“Oh, Goddess…”

“Uncle!” 

The dual voices of his brother and niece forcibly pull him to the present, and he finds himself standing dangerously close to a woman who only looks vaguely familiar. Wide green eyes stare up at him, plump lips parted in surprise, a flush stealing across her cheeks. Indech soon matches it and steps back, unable to meet her gaze.

“I apologize. You were there when I was… not quite myself, yes?” 

She only nods in answer. 

“I recognize your scent,” he says, as if that explains everything.

To him, it does. It explains nearly everything he needs to know to survive in this changed world. Certainly everything he wants to know. As Cichol makes introductions, though, he keeps his distance. He was unused to interacting with humans even before his prolonged state. He has little talent for it, though far more tolerance than Macuil. 

More interest, as well. Especially now. 

When Cethleann eventually escorts the woman--Byleth--from the room, Indech turns to his brother. “Teach me.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Teach me how to be among them. How to walk with them,” he says, gesturing ineffectively. _How to walk with her. At her side, for as long as she will have me._

Cichol looks at him, his mouth dropped open in a mix of obvious agitation and surprise. He glances between Indech and the door, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This is what finally inspires you? Truly?” 

All he can do is shrug. 

His brother lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I will teach you. But in the future, you cannot exhibit such… telling behavior. Humans will never respond well to it.” 

Indech draws in another breath, her scent still lingering in the room. He’s not sure he can make such a promise.


	5. Strength of the Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard would give almost anything to take away Byleth's pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 - “I know you didn’t ask for this.” 
> 
> cw: mentioned character death

She cannot imagine saying anything that would ease the pain, yet as Emperor--and more importantly, as a friend--she must try. She owes that much to Byleth, at the very least. 

_That and so much more._ There is a very good chance she will never be able to repay the debts she has amassed to her teacher. On her weaker days, Edelgard’s resolve buckles. She sees the glimmer of emotion in Byleth, a crack in the stony facade, and she is brought to her knees. She wants nothing more than to take away that pain, but how can she, when she is the cause of it? 

One person’s happiness is not worth the cost of the shackles that bind the people of Fódlan. She tells herself this over and over, yet it is impossible to be completely convinced when blood permanently stains her hands. 

It would not do to cower, so Edelgard pays a visit to her mentor, her friend, the woman she has loved for so long. She finds her in the graveyard, standing before her father’s headstone. It is yet another dagger lodged in her heart, but she must press on.

“Professor.” 

Byleth does not turn to face her, but she can tell her teacher knows she is there. She’s long since learned the smallest details that communicate everything the woman thinks and feels. Currently her shoulders are bunched, she stands as if she is forcing herself not to slouch, and there is so much tension held in her body it’s not difficult for Edelgard to read her current state. 

As has been the case recently, though, Byleth puts her feelings to words. “Her body belongs with her village, but I wanted to put something of hers here. I thought she’d appreciate it.” 

She looks over Byleth’s shoulder to see a simple neckpiece of tooled leather, engraved iron at its center. It rests against Jeralt’s headstone, the metal dulled, unable to catch the light of the midday sun. 

Leonie. 

Edelgard opens her mouth to speak, an apology forthcoming. But what good will an apology do? It will not change things. People have died for this cause. She and Byleth have killed for something she is unsure her teacher truly understands. It is the cost of a better future for all, but the reality makes her feel little better than Rhea.

_”That is what separates you from the likes of her,”_ Hubert told her once. _”She feels no sorrow, no remorse for the countless lives she has taken.”_

Sometimes Edelgard envies her. 

“I know you did not ask for this burden,” she says softly, hating herself for this weakness. “We have come too far to turn back now, my teacher. My friend. But if you wish to distance yourself from--” 

Byleth turns abruptly. Her eyes are not red-rimmed, her face is not puffy. There is no evidence that she has been crying, and yet Edelgard can see the grief in her features. She can see the guilt, as well, and nothing she can say will ever erase it.

_She regrets her decision to stand with me. She--_

“I made my choice,” the professor says, as if reading her mind. “I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but it needs to be done.” 

“It does,” Edelgard agrees, resolute but not quite contented by that answer. 

She cannot put her finger on why until Byleth lifts a hand and rests it against her cheek as if it is the most natural gesture in the world. Edelgard’s lungs cease to function and she is utterly paralyzed, caught in the intense gaze of the woman she adores. 

A woman who can’t possibly feel the same. And yet…

“I chose this,” she repeats, a soft whisper so close. “I chose you, El. And I’d make the choice a thousand times over.” 

Her heart squeezes in her chest, that name so bittersweet to come from the professor’s lips. She should thank her. She should confess. She should say _something_, but all she can manage is, “You called me El.” 

Byleth smiles, and Edelgard feels as if her own burdens are lighter than before. The moment is over all too soon, yet the memory of Byleth’s touch lingers on her skin even as she goes about her duties. 

Perhaps it is not weakness to feel this way. Perhaps it is strength.


	6. Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine is oblivious and Shamir can't take it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 - “I might just kiss you.”

“Oh, I could seriously just kiss you right now.” 

Shamir draws in a breath through her nose. Her face remains passive even as she considers whether it would be worth it to leap across the campfire and strangle Catherine. She wouldn’t have a partner if she did. Not for a while, anyway, and while Catherine can be… a lot, Shamir can’t deny the woman has always had her back. 

But this needs to stop. 

Every time Shamir does something she really likes, it’s the same thing. _Wow, I could kiss you right now._. _Oh, man. I was so hungry. I could seriously kiss you right now_. _Thanks, Shamir. That’s a weight off my mind. I could kiss you_. 

Every. Time. 

She might think the knight was trying to not-so-subtly tell her something, but Catherine is as obliviously obsessed with Rhea as ever. Rhea, who barely knows she exists. Who probably wouldn’t give a damn if Catherine threw herself on Thunderbrand to protect her the way she’s so fucking eager to. 

It’s pathetic, but the last time she brought it up, Catherine froze her out for a week. Catherine, who can’t resist running her mouth at all hours of the day. She felt bad about it, sure, but not as bad as she maybe should have. 

Shamir doesn’t deal in “should have”s though. It’s a waste of time. “Should have”s don’t bring back the people you love, and they don’t make it any easier to deal with a friend who’s throwing her life away for someone who will never appreciate it. 

She prefers to deal with the moment-to-moment decisions. Like the decision to just let Catherine have that one. It _is_ good wine, and Shamir went out of her way to get it. She probably should be kissed for that. 

Her gaze lingers on Catherine’s lips, stained a deeper red from the wine. Her own are chapped from the cool weather and she runs her tongue over them. Catherine doesn’t notice. She never notices, and Shamir shouldn’t _care_. 

But she doesn’t like lying to herself. That’s as much of a waste as “should have”s. 

Shamir drinks in silence, just listening to Catherine talk. It’s like that most of the time. Catherine talks constantly. It used to bother her, but whenever she’s not on assignment with the knight, it feels too quiet. Unsafe. She hates that she’s come to depend on someone else again, but going it alone wasn’t working out for her. 

So now she has Catherine, who gets a little tipsy off of half a bottle of wine. A woman built like her shouldn’t be that affected by wine, but it doesn’t matter. Shamir will take first watch while Catherine sleeps it off. 

But Catherine doesn’t want to sleep. Catherine wants to talk. 

“Hey. Shamir.” 

Shamir stares up at the sky, her arms behind her head. Her bedroll is too close to Catherine’s. It needs to be, in case someone jumps them. But it’s too close. 

“What.” 

The pause is longer than she expects. Shamir refuses to feel anxious over it, but she feels… something. 

“I know you don’t like all this sentimental shit, but… I’m glad you’re my partner.” The words are spoken softly. For Catherine, anyway. Shamir swallows, but says nothing. “You’re always there for me, even when it seems like no one else is. Sometimes I wonder if Lady Rhea even--” 

She closes her eyes and draws in another breath. The last person she wants to hear about is Rhea. Even if Catherine is _maybe_ coming close to acknowledging the truth. She’ll veer away from it. She always does. 

“Ah, nevermind.” Catherine lets out a strained laugh. She hears the change in her voice, the knight shifting to her side. “Seriously, though. You _did_ get me wine. I could--” 

“Stop making threats you’re never going to do anything with, Catherine.” 

The words leave her mouth before she can think better of it, but it doesn’t matter. Catherine won’t know what she means. 

“Huh?” 

Shamir rolls her eyes. Predictable. She turns onto her side--a miscalculation on her part. Catherine is right there. Too close. 

_I could just kiss you._

She turns onto the opposite side. She isn’t blushing. Shamir doesn’t blush. 

“Hey.” She hears Catherine shift again, and suddenly the knight’s hand is on her shoulder. Too close. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting weird.” 

“Go to sleep.” She tugs her bedroll more securely beneath her head and tries to ignore her partner. 

“Come on, Shamir.” 

Another measured breath. She turns onto her back, finding Catherine above her, blue eyes shining with concern. Too. Fucking. Close. 

“You want to know what’s going on with me?” She’s going to regret this. She already does.

“I asked, didn’t I?” 

“You’re what’s going on with me.” It’s rare for her to emote, but frustration is a powerful motivator. “Every time you say ‘I could just kiss you,’ I swear I want to murder you.” 

Catherine blinks at her, then laughs. Shamir will never admit she likes that laugh. Especially not now.

“Oh, come on. I’m just fucking around!” she says, oblivious as always. 

_That’s the problem._

Something surfaces in Catherine’s eyes, her face going slack with it. It looks like understanding, and suddenly Shamir’s heart is beating too fast.

“Wait. You said ‘stop making threats you aren’t going to do anything with.’” 

She can’t read the expression in Catherine’s eyes. It’s unsettling. Catherine’s always an open fucking book, to her own detriment. 

She’s still too close, leaning over her. Shamir’s heart is still racing. She shouldn’t say anything. She should just turn over and go to sleep. 

“Is the idea of me kissing you really that threatening?” 

Shamir’s eyes close yet again. Gods damn this woman. “No.” _Yes._

“Okay. Good. That’s… good.” 

She opens her eyes to find Catherine just staring down at her, her tanned skin flushed with a light splash of crimson. She’s just flustered. It doesn’t mean anything. Shamir doesn’t want it to mean anything.

And why the fuck is she still so fucking close? 

“Hey, Shamir.” The knight’s lips curve into a challenging smirk. “You know I could just--” 

Shamir’s response is lightning fast. She reaches up, grabs a fistful of Catherine’s hair, and uses it to pull her closer before her lips crash to the other woman’s. They’re a little chapped, like her own, but warm. Warm and responsive, as Catherine finally makes good on her promise. 

And very quickly, Shamir’s persistent thought is turned on its head.

_She isn’t close enough._

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on twitter @daddaysofsummer


End file.
